


22 June 04

by paradisecity



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-08
Updated: 2006-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradisecity/pseuds/paradisecity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the quiet moments that make their friendship what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	22 June 04

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Numb3rs flashfic challenge; the prompt was "fun."

There was nothing to mark it as an occasion, Larry would realize in time. It was no particular moment of joy, held no particular poignancy. It was as memorable as any other of the thousands (millions) of moments they'd shared, which was to say not very: Larry certainly couldn't recall what day of the week it had been (Tuesday), nor even what Charlie had been speaking of (computational psychology; he'd still been working on his theory of cognitive emergence then). In fact, he wouldn't remember it at all for years to come.

When it does come to mind, it's on a balmy summer afternoon, humidity pressing in softly, curling the graying hair at the nape of Larry's neck and the fringe falling over Charlie's forehead. Larry's absentmindedly tracing his thumbnail through the shape of letters carved into the stone tabletop: a long gone college student's ineffectual attempt to leave his mark on history. _Junto a ti_ , it might be, and Larry plumbs the shallows of his Spanish for _Close to you._ The rest has been lost to time and slate, but he can make out out _mar_ at the end, _ocean_ , and wonders what used to lie between.

Charlie's talking, the timbre of his voice enveloping Larry like the breeze. The cadence of his speech is warmly familiar, and Larry recognizes it as the soothing rhythm he hears in his thoughts before he falls asleep.

"Larry," Charlie says, and again, patiently trying to get his attention. His smile is affable and affectionate when he says, "You didn't hear a word of that, did you?"

Larry is still tracing the letters carved into the slate, the final curve of the _a_ , the stock of the _r_. There is something in the short exhalation of Charlie's laughter that follows, perhaps a cadence that carries him back, and Larry is suddenly in a memory's midst of an afternoon nearly identical to this one.

He does not remember much, only that there was nothing to mark it as an occasion, no particular moment of joy or poignancy. He cannot remember the day of the week (Tuesday) or what Charlie was speaking of (cognitive emergence), but he recalls Charlie's laughter, the squint of his eyes in mirth, the light in his hair from the sun. He recalls Charlie saying, "I should've known," recalls his own fingers absentmindedly tracing _buscaré otro mar_ and wondering vaguely what it meant. He recalls the way he looked at Charlie, chagrined and sheepish for having lost the thread of conversation. And he recalls most of all that the smile that curved his lips upward, that crinkled his eyes, matched Charlie's in depth and breadth and reason.

It felt like home, no less complete for its intangibility. He recalled then and recalls now other smiling Charlies, years of Charlies past and Charlies to come, Charlies that have held his attention and admiration, won his respect and affection, built a home for him both professional and personal. He wonders at the recursion and, in this moment, feels infinity.

Sitting in the early California sunshine, they are nothing more or less than two men seated in conversation. There is nothing and everything special about them; they are simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary.

Larry laughs, full and deep. Charlie looks at him questioningly, bemused.

"Certainty is a beautiful thing," Larry says. Then, "I'm sorry, Charles. You were saying?"


End file.
